2016: The Year of Writing Dangerously

(My vision board for 2016.  Note the left side, in purple.)

So, of course I have a lot of goals for 2016.  Meditate- every single day.  Read more.  (A lot more!)  Eat healthier.  Run more.  Stop wasting so much damned time on my phone.  Finish my 200 hour yoga certification.  Paint.  Spend more time in nature.  Teach a regular and ongoing yoga meet-up.  Get on the phone or skype with my awesome friends more.  Clean and organize.  I'm sure there are others...

The old me would have felt anxious with the number and scope of these goals.  I would've set challenges to try to get myself to do them.  That drill sergeant voice would've kicked in telling me to "GET IT DONE!".   The annihilator would've followed up with all the reasons why I couldn't.  (It's a viscous cycle.)

But I'm doing things different nowadays.  I'm approaching things with a gentler, kinder attitude towards myself.  What I was saying yesterday- it's not about the finished product, it's about getting super messy while making it.  I want to approach this goal with the reckless, joyful abandon of a two year old.  I want to soak it in.  I want to breathe.

So as strict as this goal may seem, it's not.  I'm not approaching it that way. I'm approaching it the same way I do my meditation practice- it's not about scrambling to make the time to sit and breathe for ten minutes.  It's about giving myself the gift of space in which to exist for ten minutes.  It's a break in the chaos of the morning rush.  It's a quiet moment that is just for me (and God, the universe and everything).  I want this to be the same.

I've won NaNoWriMo five times.  For five November's I've barreled past the 50K word mark.  And I did it by following the rules: being creative without judgement.  Not editing.  Writing like I was being chased by a shark and the words were the power to my lifeboat.  Swinging from idea to idea like a crazy, squealing, poo-flinging monkey.  Those are the rules of NaNo.

And they're the rules of The Night of Writing Dangerously- their annual event where they pack a bunch of writers into a ballroom in San Francisco and feed them coffee and candy to get them to write as much as they possibly can in a night to raise money for a NaNo charity.  (I've never been but if I lived anywhere near San Francisco you can bet I would have.)  Needless to say, in that kind of environment, a lot of a amazing stuff takes place.

So I want to approach this year with that same attitude: holding the space for that wild abandon to take place in.  (Thus, the title.)  Giving myself the gift of time to write.   Going at it with unbridled, enthusiastic passion AND the quiet wisdom of a yogini.  Combining all I've been with all I am becoming.

One year of daily writing.  For me.  And of course, I have to believe the rest of the world will somehow benefit from me finally figuring out how to tap into this wellspring of writing desire I've always had.

The rules I'm setting for myself are simple: write everyday.  Try to make at least one entry a week be fiction.  Don't edit (save for typos).  Be crazy, be daring, be dangerous.  But above all, have fun.  Don't hate it.  That's the real goal.  Writing while not hating writing.

I assume there'll be A LOT of non-fiction.  Me talking about yoga, about life, about whatever insight I feel like writing down that day.  I'd be lying if I said that's why I'm doing this but I'm not being so strict as to say that some pretty amazing stuff couldn't come out of that, either.  Hopefully there'll be some poetry.  I really like poetry and I'd love to write it without immediately judging and scrapping it.  And hopefully I'll finally get those stories- the ones that have been nibbling at the corners of my consciousness but I've never taken time to write because of my firm belief that they couldn't possibly come out the way I want them to.  That's what I really want to tap into.

Of course, I hope you'll all join me on this journey (otherwise, why would I be posting it online?)  But really, it's about me.  So even if no one ever reads this stuff- if it never goes anywhere, I never try to publish, not a single thing other than me having written comes out it- that'll be more than good enough for me.  It's practice, afterall.  It's the journey, not the destination.  It's the space in which to write... dangerously.  ^_^

Tree of Life

Yesterday, the first entry in the Tree of Life: Branching Out collaborative writing challenge was launched over at Samantha's site writerlysam. 

For those of you not in the loop, The Tree of Life is the truly inspired brainchild of Samantha Redstreake Geary collaborating with Audiomachine whose Tree of Life album was released today.  Preselected guest writers (of which I am one), representing all genres, from all across the globe, will contribute their own 150 word excerpt (wc is flexible) to a continuing story collectively written over the course of 26 days.

Each of the 26 writers will find inspiration in a featured composition from the motion picture music production house, Audiomachine’s new TREE OF LIFE album. These clever masters of the craft will spin the story in whatever direction they choose, picking up where the previous writer left off, resulting in the ultimate collaborative tale. 

The challenge kicked off yesterday with Amy Willoughby-Burle's entry (which you can find here) and will run through August 9th.  Amy's entry is seriously impressive not only because it's the start of our story, but because she submitted it mere days before the anticipated arrival of her fourth child!  Huge congrats to Amy on the upcoming bundle of joy and a super huge THANKS to her for an amazing start to the story!   Head over to Samantha's site to read the impressive start to this 26 part story and stay tuned here to follow the whole story as it unfolds.

I will keep the link up on the side bar (just click on the Tree of Life picture to the right) throughout the collaboration and mention it here frequently, particularly as we approach my scheduled entry (in case you're keen on my thoughts on participating).  Stay tuned- this is going to be epic!

Write Club- the Clock is Ticking

So, I know that you all already know about the hard core competition that D. L. Hammons came up with, right?  The one where 32 writers will go head to head in twice weekly bouts?  The one where you get to choose an awesome pen name and watch your story fight it out without fear of exposure?  The one that has a cut-off date to enter in only five days?!?  In case you don't, please go here immediately and read all about it. 

I'm signed up to read and very excited about it but also planned to enter the ring- which is where I got stuck.  "Wait-" the inner critic jumps.  "You mean you actually want to enter your story to see if it would win?  Yeah right!  You wouldn't even make it into the first round of 32!"  And the (sometimes) small voice that defends me falters, believing those poisonous words.

Posting here is one thing.  It's my blog, there's no one else around writing fiction and poetry.  And if a piece doesn't fly I don't give myself time to wallow cause I push on to the next post.  But a competition?  One where my writing will be directly compared to other writers- ones who are actually talented?  Well that's a whole other ball game.

Or is it?  I've had a motto which has been working pretty well for me around here.  "Do it anyway"  (And now, if you're a Ben Folds Five fan like me, you've got that song stuck in your head, right?  You're welcome!)  I've talked about how it works for me before and without repeating myself too much I'm gonna talk about it again.

I don't really believe that I can do any of the stuff that I do on here.  I can't do flash fiction, I can't write poetry and I certainly can't expose myself to the world.  And yet, I do it anyway.  And every single time I do I get rewarded for my bravery.  And those are some hard facts my inner critic can't argue with.

So I know that I can't win Write Club.  Heck, I know I can't even get picked to start the first round cause I know that nothing I write will be good enough.  But i'm gonna write anyway and enter it anyway.  Cause regardless of whether or not my piece does well in the comeption, it'll be a solid win against that pesky inner critic of mine.

I hope you all choose to participate cause I expect it's gonna be a ball.  Plus, you still got five days to get that piece written...

Me... with the memory of you

I dreamt about you again last night.

One of those strange visions that felt like a memory

but wasn’t. 

You and I were in a museum,

looking at the bones of history

and stumbling through the passages of silence. 

I had my coat tucked under my arms; your hand was in your pocket. 

I lingered at the placard,

hesitating to move on

hoping that you might brush my sleeve as you passed. 

When I looked up you were gone

and I tiptoed through the glass display cases

searching for you.

Room through room I chased you. 

Your presence wafted behind

like the scent of fresh rain

in the arid day. 

But all I found were the faces of strangers

and monsters’ remains. 

I discovered you in the gift shop,

amongst the toys and kitsch. 

You’d stumbled upon an old friend

who was going to take you away from me. 

I was jealous.

I always was. 

But all I could do was stand there looking stupid,

and watch you walk away. 

As you stepped out into the daylight

the glass doors caught your shape. 

I thought I saw you holding something in your hands…

and I watched another moment of chance fade away.

I awoke

feeling unsettled and spent.

Your ghost still haunting my conscious thoughts.

Like always, it seems:

Me...

with the memory of you.

Just Connect

For years now (4, if you’re counting), I’ve been participating in NaNoWriMo every November and winning by accomplishing what still seems like the impossible task of writing 50k words in 30 days.  And what’s more is that in spite of the incalculable insanity that is the month of November I’ve not only reached the goal every year, but I’ve actually had fun doing it.

Now, for those of you who have read my past posts about my writing process, I’m not usually a person who enjoys writing.  I guilt myself into it, agonize over the entire process, and feel such sheer relief after it’s done that I usually have no interest in doing it again.  Sure, I like the pride I feel from having accomplished it- but I don’t like it.  I like having done it.

And I’ve wondered why it is that I can’t repeat the same maddening but wonderful process that makes NaNoWriMo the amazing experience it is during the rest of the year- why it is that November seems to have cornered the market on writing.  I’ve thought that maybe it was simply a matter of writing everyday.  (It’s not, though that is a great thing to do and I know I would benefit from doing it.  But one step at a time, here.)  I’ve wondered if perhaps it’s the fact that I’m writing a novel rather than a short story.  (That’s not it, either.)  I’ve thought that perhaps it’s because during NaNo no one reads what I write. (I admit this is a big draw, but it’s not what makes NaNo wonderful.)

It’s only recently that I’ve come up with the blaringly obvious, I-must-be-mentally-retarded-for-having-not-realized-this-sooner answer: it’s the people.  (Yeah, I know.  Duh.)

I have, until relatively recently, lived with the delusion that I was in this alone.  While I certainly followed other blogs and Twitter feeds I didn’t really feel connected to the people I followed because I believed that they were real authors and that I was entirely too far below them to be in the same league.  They, after all, were getting published and read by large audiences and had projects in the works that might actually yield them money.  I couldn’t relate to any of that!

And yet, the more that I’ve allowed myself to open up to all these other authors the more I’ve seen that underneath whatever hero worship I may have naively placed on them they’re actually people.  They, like me, have lives that often get in the way of them writing.  They, like me, have jobs and families and bills and pets and daily life bull-shit that they have to deal with.  And they, like me, have other interests aside from writing and are not actually chained to their computers coming up with stories 24/7.

And most importantly: they, like me, have doubts.  I, amazingly enough, am not the only writer to think my writing is crap.  Nor am I the only writer to struggle a great deal with the process of writing.  Nor am I the only writer to wonder- very frequently- if I should even be writing at all.

It turns out that these thoughts and fears which I thought set me apart from all these other amazing writers is actually the exact thing that brings me together with them.  Epiphany.

And sure enough, when I did start to expose myself (and my writing) to these writers I found more and more similarities rather differences.  More and more thoughts coming from their minds that are identical to my own.  More and more reasons to try doing what they’re doing: writing.

So, I started connecting.  On Twitter, on Google+, on Blogger, on everything I can think of.  And the more connections I made the more cool people I was finding to connect to.  Plus, the more I connected, the more they (you) connected back.

I am overwhelmed.  I am awed.  I am thrilled.  I am feeling incredibly stupid for not realizing this sooner.  But most of all, I am determined.  I want the magic of NaNo all year long.  And I’m on my way to it.

So I’m going to write more.  More flash pieces for #fridayflash, more insights on writing for #amwriting and now, for the first time, 26 more pieces for the #atozchallenge!

That’s right!  Beginning April 1^st I’ll be embarking, along with so many other awesome people it’ll be like NaNo all over again, on a 26 post journey.  I will be writing, posting, blog-hopping, reading, commenting, tweeting, sharing and reveling.  And it’s gonna be awesome.

Because I’m not alone, unless I isolate.  I’m not a shitty writer unless I conclude that I am.  I’m not unproductive unless I avoid doing what I so obviously need to do.  And I’m not stupid enough to forget this invaluable (if painfully obvious) lesson: Just Connect.

Fitting

"You’re probably gonna think I’m crazy… and the thing is, you might be right.  The world stopped making sense the day I saw her in a bathtub full of blood.

"And I could even guess what you think happened.  You find your sister like that and you’re gonna be a bit traumatized.  Anybody would be.  So you think I built up this delusion as part of PTSD or some shit like that.  And if that’s how you’re looking at it, it makes sense.  It fits.  People like it when things fit.  But sometimes they don’t.

"Sometimes you can’t explain away what happens with a pre-existing understanding.  You can’t just categorize everything, slap a label on it and file it away.  Cause some part of you (maybe not the logical part, but some part) knows it doesn’t fit.  And when that happens, you gotta wonder.

"Like when they pulled her out of that tub- she should have been dead.  And I think she was.  I know she was.  No one agrees with me, but I know my sister.  She died that day.  They may have pulled her body out of there, stitched up the cuts and pumped it back full of blood- but she was already gone.  I knew it as soon as I saw it in the hospital.

"They let us go in (my dad and me), and as soon as I saw those eyes I knew.  They were the same blue eyes as my sister’s but they weren’t hers anymore.  Something else was looking out of them.

"And I’m sure it’s about now you want to see if facts and logic contradict the story.  You wanna point out that anyone would look different after trying to kill themselves.  That I was looking at someone who was too depressed to seem like the person I knew.  But I did know her.  I knew my sister and I knew her depression.  She’d been depressed as long as she’d been alive.  It was just part of her personality.  I know that sounds weird, but it’s true.  And that wasn’t it.

"It wasn’t depression that made it lie and manipulate every single person it came in contact with.  It wasn’t depression that made it start sleeping with every guy in school.  And it certainly wasn’t depression that gave it seemingly magical powers over everyone.  And it wasn’t those meds they prescribed, either.  Every kid in school, every teacher, every neighbor, even my dad- they were all under its spell.  Jumping and posing and bouncing like marionettes.  Depression won’t do that.  Meds won’t do that.  And my sister sure as hell wouldn’t do that.

"And I’m sure you wanna point out that my dad knew her, too.  Say that a man would notice if his own daughter wasn’t there anymore.  But the fact is he was too busy worrying about her to really see it.  See it where she had been.

"I don’t know what it was.  I don’t know what they pulled out of the tub that day.  I did a lot of research trying to figure it out.  And you want crazy, there’s plenty of that on the internet.  I may be crazy but I’m not crazy.  I never figured out what it was.

"We stopped going to church when my mom died and since I was so young I don’t remember much of it.  But there was one thing the pastor said that stuck with me.  He said that evil was opportunistic, that it preyed on the weak willed and that we had to secure our will in God in order to protect ourselves.  I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about at the time.  Not until I saw my sister’s body in that hospital bed.  Then I remembered.

"I said I didn’t know what it was and that’s true, I don’t.  But I know it was evil.  You don’t do that kind of shit if you’re not.  My sister wouldn’t do that kind of shit.  And don’t tell me that sexual promiscuity or whatever you call that bullshit is normal in disturbed people- that’s not what it was.  It was control.  It was removing the order from the world and putting chaos there instead.  It was breaking things down and creating… I don’t know what.  I just know that within three months things were so irrevocably fucked up that there was no repair, there was just damage control.

"Telling my friends that it wasn’t her who sacrificed them in the public eye and left everyone whispering in the hallways every time they walked to class.  Telling the quarterback (who I don’t even like) that there was more to life than football after it crashed his car and left him in a wheel chair.  Trying to get my dad to go to the doctor when he kept having those pains. 

"I should’ve done something sooner.  I think he might still be alive if I’d realized the twisted shit it was doing sooner.  Or if I hadn’t been such a fucking pussy about doing something about it.  And I know you think that was a heart attack- but it fucked with his pills, I know it did.  I don’t know what he was taking instead of his heart meds, but whatever they were they killed him.  And there’s nowhere else they could’ve come from.  There’s no logic you can use to argue that one away.

"It looked at me at the funeral, you know?  It held my hand, to make it look it good.  And that’s when I realized what had happened.  Why he was dead.  And that’s when I realized I had to do something.

"So I know you think I’m crazy, because you think I shot my sister.  But I had to use a gun- cause the slit wrists and legs didn’t do it.  It had to be a shot to the head.  Well, several.  But that was the only way I could be sure. 

"And I know that’s a crazy thing to do, so I accept that I might be crazy.  But that’s not the question- is it, doc?  The question is, if there’s a diagnosis for that.  The question is if I fit.  Cause if I don’t fit the label you gotta wonder… know what I mean?"

Occupational Hazard

In honor of International Women's Day...

In the darkness, the light from the fire was blinding.  She could feel the heat on her skin.  She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move.  She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t breathe.  There was no air in the blackness, no ground, nothing except for her and the fire.  It burned her.

~

Sarah shot up like a trap.  For a second, everything was quiet.  She sat there in the bed, her eyes trying to see in the darkness, wondering what had awoken her.  Then she heard the whimper again and remembered.  She threw the covers off and jumped out of bed, running the short distance to her daughter’s room.

The small girl was tossing in her bed like a ship in a tempest, thrashing and whimpering in her sleep.  Sarah grabbed her in her arms and cradled her but she didn’t wake and the action earned her a strong kick on the shin.

“Ali, Ali- it’s ok!  Wake up, sweetie- wake up!” she shouted, half rocking and half shaking her as she did.

“Noooo-“ Ali whimpered, tears seeping out from under her closed eyes.  She thrashed and pushed against her, nearly dislodging herself from her mother’s grip.

“Ali!” Sarah yelled, her desperation causing her voice to shriek.

“Na-uah” Ali screamed as she opened her eyes.  She stared wildly for a second before her eyes fixated on the image of her mother leaning over her and then tears started in earnest.  She buried her head into the folds of Sarah’s nightgown and unleashed a sea of tears and angry, muffled sobs.

“It’s ok, sweetie- it’s ok” Sarah cooed, stroking the small girl’s head as she rocked her back and forth.  “It’s ok, mommy’s here.  You’re ok.”

It was a long time before the sobbing slowed and the girl calmed in her arms.  Sarah could feel a dampness spreading across her belly from where her face had been buried.  There was the sound of muffled words and Sarah stopped her rocking.

“What is it, sweetie?  What happened?”

“They were burning!’ Ali cried, pushing back from her mother’s embrace to look up at her.  Her face was dimly lit in the meager light from the turtle-shaped night light on the bed side table but Sarah could see the shine from her tears all over her face.

“Who was, sweetie?” she asked, her voice calm and soothing.

“They were burning and I- I couldn’t get out!” she yelled.

Sarah smoothed the tears from her face and wiped the sweat from her forehead.  “It was only a dream- you’re safe now.  You’re here with me and… where is he?”  She held onto the small body as she leaned across the bed and felt through the mess of sheets.  Then she leaned to the other side and reached around to the floor, her fingers finally brushing the small, fluffy object.

“Uhn- here he is!” she said, grabbing the stuffed monster up off the floor and brandishing it above her head triumphantly.  “You’re here with me and Mooby and everything’s ok,” she said as she placed the stuffed animal into her daughter’s hands. 

Ali grabbed onto it and smothered it against her chest.

“There, now- that’s better.”  She continued to rock her daughter, cooing slightly. 

“But what if it comes back?” Ali whined, her voice shaky.

“Well, if Mr. Mooby would do his job,” she said, pointing at the fluffy, purple monster with an accusatory finger, “then we wouldn’t have any nightmares, now would we?”

“Yeah,” Ali pouted.  “He’s supposed to chase the other monsters away!”

“I know- what’s up with that, you slacker?” Sarah asked as she raised an eyebrow at the stuffed animal.  “Well I know somebody who’s not going to get that raise he was asking for.”

“Yeah, you slacker!” Ali parroted as she poked the small monster in the face, then hugged him more fiercely than before in punishment for his misdeed and settled back into her mother’s lap.  She kicked and pushed as she curled herself up in the embrace.

“Ooof-“ Sarah said as a small knee jabbed her in the stomach.  She pushed herself up a little further on the small bed and leaned back against the headboard.  “Well, I’m sure he feels bad and he won’t make such a terrible mistake again.”

“Ya-eah” Ali said in a yawn.  She settled back into the warm embrace and closed her eyes.

The adrenaline which had hastened her arrival wearing off, Sarah found herself yawning. She stared off into space as her sleepiness started to wear her down, then realized that the small burden on her lap had already settled.  The small, even breaths let her know that she’d fallen asleep already.

“Uh, oh- now.  Let’s not fall asleep until mommy can-“ she said, trying to move the bundle from her lap. 

Ali made a soft, protesting noise as her bed moved underneath her.

Sarah signed and settled back into the small bed again.  She pushed one of the pillows behind the crook of her back and tried to get her other leg up on the bed but the awkward angle prevented it and Ali was nothing more than dead weight now.  She rubbed her eyes wearily, wondering how long she would have to stay like this.  Then Ali made a small snort as she snored and Sarah smiled at her.  She sat there for some time watching her sleep until her eyelids grew heavy. 

She would fall asleep there, as she had many other nights, and pay for it in the morning with a back ache and sore shoulders.  But she’d never complain.  It was just part of the job, she thought.  And she was proud of it.

The Best Thing About Nicholas Nickleby

My father grew up in the age of John Wayne and Gary Cooper.  He was the 3^rd generation descendant of Russian immigrants growing up in Cold War America.  And most of all, he is a man.  Communication was never his strong suit.

Which is why my dad never had the easiest time communicating with us kids, especially me- the girl.  We developed a routine rather early on in my life where his primary method of displaying his affection for me was to tease me.  Mercilessly.  Over time I developed the ability to tease him back and the two of us spent the bulk of our interactions teasing each other, my father’s unequivocally weird sense of humor dominating the logic of these conversations.

He struggled when “real” issues were brought up and despaired when I cried.  It wasn’t something he was able to fix for me and I think he kind-of felt like a failure for that.  He’d tried to make me laugh, he’d try to cheer me up.  He’d he ask me who Fat Burns was and tell me, if I didn’t guess it immediately, that he was the son of Skinny Burns.  Sometimes it’d actually get a laugh out of me.  But of course that wasn’t what I wanted and it wasn’t long before all crying spells were automatically referred to my mother because he just didn’t know what to do for me.

During my adolescence, at the height of my teen angst and rebellion, I gravitated toward him because his quiet nature was less imposing than my mother’s and he’d suffered more hardships over his life that I could relate to.  He’d had his heart broken (before my mom).  He’d struggled to make friends.  He’d felt alone- unlike my mother whose gregarious nature awarded her with an active social life for as long as she could remember.  It was the first time that we were able to converse about “real” issues and I secretly treasured them as something that made our relationship special.

Then I went to college and fell into the trap that many people do: every time I called home my mom would pick up and in many calls my only communication with him was through her.  Sometimes I would call specifically when my mother wasn’t home to talk to him about something from school- he was always a huge history buff (still is) and had a love and respect for literature that served to establish common ground.  But over the years it became more and more common for us to converse primarily through my mother and in all honesty I didn’t work hard enough to keep our relationship separate.

So last night when I called home, I asked if I could talk to just dad for a while after getting the regular weekly update from my mom.  My mom hung up and I broached the subject I thought would be fruitful: the book I just finished, which he had said he’d read when I mentioned it earlier.  I can’t tell you how much joy it brought me to have a real conversation with my dad about both that particular book, and the work of Charles Dickens in general.

He had his own opinions about the humorous tone of the book, where Dickens got his inspiration and which of his works executed certain literary tasks better.  He knew about the historical impact of many of his works; specifically about the impact this book had on the Yorkshire school systems.  (He always knows those historical factoids and I love that about him.)  I learned that his favorite book of Dickens is A Tale of Two Cities and he has a very different perspective of Sydney Carlton than I’ve always had.  We argued about it.  It was wonderful.  And after my endorsement of David Copperfield, he promised to go get a copy from the library so we could talk about that, too.

I know my dad loves me.  And I wish that we could find a way to honestly talk about life, without my mother and without the awkward trips and falls that often get in the way.  But literature and history come so much more naturally.  Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had with my dad have been over Shakespeare’s history plays, The Lord of The Rings trilogy or the Harry Potter series or about something I was just watching on the history channel.  It’s our common ground, it’s where we meet.

I don’t get these conversations with my dad very often.  Which is probably why I feel so good right now for having just had one.  And of all the things I’ll remember about Nicholas Nickleby, this is the best.

Writing: How It Works For Me

My dear friend John wrote about his writing process recently.  He talked about how he gets all these ideas, all hours of the day, from conversations, from books, from tv or video games, from everywhere and he just wrote them.  Reading this, I got this sensation of needing to express these ideas.  Like they were just bursting out of him and he felt pressured- like a volcanic buildup- if he didn’t get them out.  So he did, every day, every time.  No genius, no brilliant, glistening epiphanies- just writing.  It seemed so simple.

And I felt so angry from reading that because I related to it in so many ways.  A billion ideas in my head: every minute of everyday about just about everything.  I have that.  And honestly the ideas, the ideas themselves, can be just as creative, interesting and story worthy.  But I always, always shut myself down before I can write them.

That inner critic of mine is like a God with a huge, booming voice that’s raining down judgment on all of my fragile little ideas.  And unlike Noah, I don’t have an arc.  So all my tiny little (possibly brilliant) ideas drown as I conclude that it has been done, that it is stupid, that there is no way I could possibly execute it well enough because I don’t have the talent.

It’s a full-blown superiority complex- the belief that every other writer is better than me, more innately talented, more educated about the process of writing and therefore more able to translate their ideas into these amazing pieces I read every Friday.  And I try to console myself by saying that I’m just not a writer like they are- I’m just not meant to write.  But I still have all those ideas.

It’s my own form of OCD.  I obsess about writing thinking that I should write, that I need to write, that that brilliant idea I just had needs to be written.  I feel compulsed to write.  So I do.  And then, inevitably, the story is not good enough.  That brilliant idea is now a crappy piece of writing nowhere near as amazing as it seemed when it was still just in my head.  And I feel horrible; I hate myself, I hate writing, I hate everything.  So I close my computer in disgust.  And sometimes this leads me to withdraw completely from everything- I stop reading the new flash Friday pieces, I stop reading John’s blog or any of the others I follow, I avoid twitter and even my computer for sometimes weeks or even months at a time.

But the obsessions build, the compulsion to write grows, I feel guilty for having not written for so long.  So I do.  And the process repeats itself.

But here’s the thing- and here what John’s post reveled to me- those ideas are still ideas.  They’re not stupid, or over-done, or any of the others things I may conclude they are.  The only difference is that John and Tony and Icy and Chuck and Adam and Danielle and Helen and all those other amazing writers WRITE.  That’s it.  It isn’t a gift from the Gods, or a muse that has chosen to gift them with brilliant insights on a regular basis, or intelligence so far superior to mine that my feeble little mind can’t even comprehend it.  It’s the simple act of writing.  And if I wrote my ideas like they do, I could be just as good as I think they are.  Not to myself, obviously.  But to someone else reading my blog.  (I know, I know- you’re thinking “Haven’t you been told this since the dawn of time?”  But that’s how insight works- you have to get it the hard way.)

My favorite band in the world is Ben Folds Five.  Do you know them?  If not, you absolutely MUST watch this:

Yes, that is Red sitting on Ben Folds' shoulder.

That song is from their new reunion album and it’s one of my favorite songs they’ve ever done (And I got to see them do it live *sqee!*).  And I’m sure you can see why it relates. 

Because if I can write that idea down, and if I can hold back the deluge of judgment just long enough to hit the post button- people tend to like what I wrote.  Even if it isn’t that brilliant, sparkling, wonderful idea it had been in my head.  It’s still ok.  Maybe even good.  Maybe even great on very rare occasions.  And because it exists- because I didn’t drown it in criticism- I’m better off for it.  Do it anyway.  That’s what’s been working for me lately.

So, towards that end, I’m making a determined effort to expose myself more.  Expose my writing more, expose myself to more writing prompts, get connected to other writers and other writing communities.  And so here I am, writing about writing for #amwriting.  And it is my hope that by letting the world in on my madness I’ll see how right I am by seeing that you all relate to what I’ve shared.  Because lately I’ve been realizing how not alone I am in this struggle, and it’s felt really good.

A Heart For My Valentine

The teacher said he had to give a Valentine to everyone but Suzie Jenkins was the prettiest and he had a special present in mind for her.  His uncle had raised an eyebrow when he asked him, but he’d explained that it was for a science project.  His mom had been suspicious of the large lump of tightly wrapped mystery food in the refrigerator but his desperate dive to cover it from her reach had convinced her that whatever it was it was best left undisturbed.  Each day had ticked by slower than the last until finally, wonderfully the day had come.

Young Tim Morris was one of the first out of his chair when they announced that it was time to hand out the valentines.  He’d grabbed the first box off the shelf when his mom had taken him to buy them and was now wishing he’d granted them at least a glance as he slid girly Hello Kitty cards into the lunch bags fastened to the front of each desk.  Tommy Wikowski was going to make fun of him for months for that.  But he didn’t care.  He only had eyes for Suzie.

She had the prettiest hair and her pink headband with tiny red hearts only served to accentuate the curls.  She had eyes like sapphires- or emeralds.  He couldn’t remember which stone was which color.  But the blue ones, those were her eyes.  They were, like, sparkly.  He found himself staring into them as the face around them shifted into a confused expression.

“Tim…?” Suzie asked, a grin developing in the corner of her mouth as she asked.

“Huh?” he asked, still staring.

“Are you ok?” Suzie asked, then chuckled.  He heard the high-pitched giggles of her friends and suddenly remembered himself. 

“I-uh-“ he hesitated, not sure what to do.  All he wanted to do was run from the classroom and not stop until he hit Kolkata which his father had recently shown him on a map and he remembered because he liked the name.  But his feet seemed to be glued to floor.  “Uh…” his mouth couldn’t seem to form the words and he was struggling to think past the increasing number of embarrassed giggles.

“Is that for me?” Suzie mercifully asked him.

“Oh!  Uh- yeah, yeah this is for you!” Tim said, jumping at the memory of the precious cargo he had to deliver.  “I got this for you, Suzie,” he said as he gently placed the package on the desk.

“Oh, um… thank you.” she said, though she poked at the wrapping suspiciously with the eraser of her pencil.

“Happy Valentine’s day!” he shouted more than spoke, then ran back to his desk before she could say anything else. 

“Ok, children- open your Valentines!” Mrs. Archer announced, waving her hands at the class.

The classroom erupted with noise as everyone grabbed their lunchbags off the front of their desk and began exploring the contents.  Some, like Tommy Wikowski, dumped the contents on their desk and searched for the cards with a lollipops or chocolate taped to the front.  Others, like Betsy Rosa, sorted through each one in a slow orderly fashion.  But all Tim could see was Suzie.  She had pushed his gift to the corner of her desk to make room for her Valentines.  He looked down at his desk, feeling defeated.  He grabbed his own bag off the front of his desk angrily and pushed the cards out onto his desk, uninterested in them until he spotted Suzie’s handwriting.

He grabbed it up in a jolt of excitement- the small heart over the I in his name letting him know it was from her.  He tore open the envelope and pulled out the card with his heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings which, he had just learned, beat up to 80 times a second.  He looked at the image of a brightly-colored bug with hearts on the ends of its antenna and big cartoony eyes.  The scripted letters written on it’s tummy- which bugs so didn’t have- let him know it was a “Love Bug”.

He flipped the car around, praying for there to be a message on the back.  All it said was “Tim” with the same heart over the I.  He looked over the shoulder of Levi who sat in front of him and saw the same heart over the I at the end of his name.  He watched as he pulled an identical card out of his envelope and his heart sank to the pit of his stomach which was impossible, of course.  But that’s what it felt like.

He rested his head on his hands and waited for the torturous exercise be over until the loud questions “What is that?” stood out from the general noise.

He looked over and saw Betsy standing in front of Suzie’s desk, her hand pointing at the package.  He watched as Suzie reached for it and began undoing the tape that held the plastic on.  He thought that maybe he should run over, snatch it up before she could see.  But then he sat back and watched, unable to look away.

Suddenly a loud scream erupted and a crowd of children flocked to the desk, blocking his view.  He ran over and tried to push his way to the center to see what was happening.  Mrs. Archer walked over and pushed the children aside, saying “What’s going on?” as she did.

Tim shoved Ian Lombardi out of the way and finally saw the gift- the cow’s heart he had gotten from his uncle’s butcher shop sat in the mess of plastic and deli paper it’d been wrapped in.  The blood had stained the paper black and the heart looked wilted, almost like it’d been left in the sun for too long.  The arteries leading out had lost their distinctive shape and the colors had darkened.  His uncle had warned him that it wouldn’t stay ‘fresh’ long, but Tim had never expected this.

“Who did this?” Mrs. Archer asked, the thread of anger in her voice letting him know there was magma under the surface.

He retreated a step but bumped into the person behind him.  There was no escape.

“I- I did-“ he said, tentatively raising his hand.

Mrs. Archer looked at him, a shocked expression settling onto her features.  “Timothy?  Why would you do this?”

“It’s a heart!” he blurted out.  “I got her a heart for valentine’s day!”

His classmates all laughed like a pack of hyenas while Mrs. Archer frowned at him, that disappointed frown that killed him every time he saw it.  “We’ll talk about this after class,” she said, taking the offending display off of Suzie’s desk as she retreated to the head of the classroom.  “Back to your seats, everyone.”

Tim hazarded a glance at Suzie and instantly regretted it.  She was staring daggers at him and her eyes were definitely not sparkly anymore.  He limped back to his desk with his head rapidly shrinking into his shoulders.  He wished he could pull it all the way inside like those giant tortoises Mrs. Archer had shown them the video of.  Then he could wait it out and emerge when the danger had passed.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned in his chair to see Jessie Beeman smiling at him.  “I thought it was really cool,” she whispered.

He’d never noticed it before but she had the prettiest eyes behind her big glasses.  They were light brown- the color of those giant Sequoia trees he’d seen in those pictures.

Everyday Miscommunications

He made a joke.

She took it personally.

She said a sarcastic remark.

He wondered what she meant by it.

He mentioned a past interaction, simply because the memory popped into his mind.

She thought about the past.

He changed the topic.

She snapped at him.

He stumbled, shocked by the impact of the sting.

She misinterpreted his silence and was sucked into the quicksand of her own doubt.

She launched a full-out attack at his perceived assault, in defense of her own shortcomings.

He shut down.

She continued her tirade.

He made an excuse, said he had to go.

She started to cry.

He said he was sorry, then added that he didn’t know what for.

She hung up.

Another stone was built into the wall between them and neither one knew why.

The Upside of Death

"I think dad's a vampire."

The second he said it, he wished he could take it back.  But there it was, out there.  The words just filling the small space of the car.  He felt like a dog caught in front of his own accident waiting to have his nose rubbed in it.

But instead Jack just said "...ok?"

It was dubious but not nearly the reaction he'd been expecting.  It somehow gave him strength to push forward.  Or, more likely it was the six beers he'd consumed back at bar, but regardless he was pushing forward.

"Just hear me out.  The first thing, obviously, is the cancer.  I mean who goes from stage four unresponsive to chemo to... sprightly?"

"Sprightly?" Jack chuckled at him.

"Yeah- I mean one second he looks like death warmed over and I'm waiting for the call to let me know it's time to rent a suit and the next mom tells me he's checked himself out of the hospital.  I came home expecting to find him on his death bed, like hospice or something and he's practically..." he searched for the word in his vocabulary but found the thought becoming increasingly fuzzy as the beers reminded him that he should be significantly more relaxed than he was.  Had it been seven?

"Practically what?" Jack prodded as he turned the wheel, lazily directing the car through the darkness of the woods on route 71.

"He's weird!" Chad announced.  It hadn't been the word he was looking for, not at all, but it conveyed the sentiment well enough.  "I mean he's laughing and making jokes and he looks a thousand times better- I mean, he looks paler but paler looks way better than that yellowish tint he's had-"

"That could be the chemo," Jack said.

"Huh?" Chad stopped short, nearly tripping over his tongue as he clipped the sentence.

"The paleness," Jack said as he glanced over at him, "Chemo."

"Right but the giddiness?  The animated stories?  I saw him pinch mom's butt in the kitchen while she was chopping up vegetables, for christ sake!"

"I'm still not seeing how any of this equates with vampirism.  Joy over being alive, sure.  But blood-sucking undead?  Not so much," Jack laughed.  He seemed more confident than Chad remembered him, more self-assure somehow.  His powers of observation seemed to be fading as his body settled into a state of inebriation.  Maybe it had been eight?

"Ok- well how about this, he didn't want any diner!"

"Again, chemo."

"How the hell does a dying man have that much energy when he's not even eating?  And- you know what?  Even without the whole dying part he’s 73!  Even without the cancer he shouldn’t be so… whatever.  And it’s not just me- mom’s freaked, too!”

“Well, he’ll bring her over soon enough,” Jack said off-handedly. 

Chad’s mind caught on the statement, a knee-jerk reaction pulling him out of the haze.  “What?”

“I mean around- he’ll bring her around to his way of thinking, make her see how this is a second chance and all that.” Jack flustered. 

Chad felt clearer than he had been since he first got into the car, a sudden burst of adrenaline making him paranoid.  “You said over.”

“Chadley, you’re drunk,” Jack diagnosed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

As soon as he touched him the dashboard in front of him seemed to go lop-sided and he found himself leaning into the supportive hand as struggled to keep himself upright.  “Yeah.” Chad acknowledged.  “How the hell did that happen?”

“Um, I believe they call it beer,” Jack laughed.  It was a crisp, clear sound.  Like he was assured of his wit.  So unlike the Jack he knew.  It had been years since he’d seen him for more than a dinner at Christmas or some other occasion, but still.  This confident, charismatic Jack was not the awkward, perpetually uncomfortable boy he’d grown up with.

“You’re being paranoid.”  He heard it more than thought it but a look over at Jack let him know he hadn’t said anything.  He felt himself loosing his grasp on reality, withering.  Jack’s hand on his shoulder suddenly seemed like more a hindrance than a help.

“But where were you?  You tell me we’re going to a bar to talk and then you disappear to the bathroom for… I don’t know, a long time.  What was that all about?” he asked, trying to push his hand off his shoulder.  He felt so weak.

Jack didn’t say anything at that, just took another turn and led the car down a bumpy gravel road.

“Where’re you takin mee..?” he could barely get the words out.  There was no way he’d had enough to be this plastered.

“Ok, so let’s just say that dad is a vampire and let’s just say that mom soon will be, too- would that really be the worst thing?  I mean think about it- no more cancer, no more arthritis, no more imminent death.  They could finally take that cruise.  Really, there’s no down side,” Jack argued, his voice lilting as if he were listing the ingredients of a cake.  He put the car in park and undid his seat belt.

“No,” Chad said.  He wasn’t a thousand percent sure what he was saying it to.  But a voice in his head was screaming at him to get out of the car, get away from him.  His body wasn’t moving.  He pushed himself with his last ounce of strength and his head lolled to side. 

Jack was bent over him, his shoulders rising and falling in short little bursts of motion as he emanated sucking noises.  The fog in his head seemed to clear and even as his life started to fade he was certain of one thing.  “Vampire,” he whispered.

Jack straightened himself, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.  He smacked his lips and then bit into his own wrist.  Chad saw blood welling forth from the wound as Jack brought it towards him.

“You’re more observant I thought,” he smiled.